


One Last Time

by orphan_account



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Inspired by Skyfall, M/M, POV James Bond, Past Relationship(s), Pining James Bond, distant q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 12:58:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7977604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A surprise guest convinces Bond to resurrect from his early retirment and save MI6 one last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Time

Bond stared blankly at the door, his entire body somehow still frozen in the building silence after the all-too-brief encounter. There had once been a time when he would have already sprung into action, already would be down the hall chasing after the dark haired young man, already begging for a chance to explain himself. 

He could still see the pale face in his mind, the blank expression of a man who’d, in the space of moments, turned his entire life upside down again. Why was Bond surprised? It’d happened once before over a simple cup of coffee in an MI6 break room that seemed so very far away now. But that had been in another place, another time . . . another life. 

And in that other life, Bond would’ve already caught up to the young man. He wouldn’t have frozen in shock. He would’ve flung open the door that had been closed oh so politely . . .

But in that other life, the door wouldn’t have been shut politely; it would’ve been slammed shut with a resounding bang that would echo throughout the room long after the exit. There would have been screaming and shouting and accusations and questions and pleas. But there’d been none of that now. Instead, the slim boffin, his face blank and professional, his tone soft and commanding, had delivered his message and then gently slipped from the room and shut the door behind him, almost as if he were tip-toeing from the room of a sleeping child. 

But somehow, despite the silent nature of his exit, the sound of that door clicking shut still echoed in Bond’s brain just as loudly as any slammed door. 

Bond knew that he should move, try to explain how or why or any other of those important questions that he knew had to be burning in the young man’s mind. But now . . . now he just sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the hotel door, a shell of the man he used to be. 

The soft hands and even softer lips trailing over his skin jolted him from his reverie. 

“Your coworker seemed . . .” his companion’s lilted voice trailed off as she tried to find the right word. Bond’s mind rebelled at the title of coworker. He and Desmond (and god, it had been so long since he’d allowed himself to even think of that name) had been so much more than that. “He was so, how you say, serious?” 

Bond didn’t acknowledge the statement. Instead, his mind was thinking of humid summer evenings spent on the balcony of a tiny apartment, wide smiles and teasing words, not a serious note to be found among the cacophony of laughter. 

The woman, whose name Bond had long since forgotten, continued. “His eyes were so cold.” But in his mind, Bond was seeing those eyes as they had once been, bright and happy and mischievous. 

“Are all British men born that way?” She questioned breathily, her teeth scraping along the shell of his ear. “Cold and unfeeling? A thick layer of ice built around their heart?” Her long, painted nails scraped over his chest, the cool metal of her wedding ring shocking against his flushed skin.

“No,” Bond finally muttered. “Someone made us that way.” 

And Bond, he’d been that way from the start. He hadn’t really had much of a choice in the matter, after his parents’ death and his boss’s betrayal. But Des . . . he hadn’t been that way at all. He’d been the single bright, warm spot in Bond’s otherwise cold life. And now, he was just as cold and unfeeling as the rest of them. And Bond had made him that way. 

“Will you go back?” she asked. Bond’s glance slid over to the plane ticket that Des had left on the nightstand. Should he? It had been so long . . . would he even be able to now? Dead men tell no tales, and he’d been dead just long enough to have forgotten most of his own. 

But then he thought of Des’s simple promise as he’d set the plane ticket down. “One last time, 007, and then you’re free to go. No more of this hiding business.” 

And then he’d turned and left so quietly, it was almost as though he hadn’t been there at all. But for Bond, he would always be there. He’d always been the gentle voice in the back of the agent’s mind, calling him back home to England, back home to him. But this time, it hadn’t just been a voice in Bond’s mind that he could easily ignore. No, he’d come here in person to request his help.

And Bond, he’d always been unable to deny those teasing eyes and that laughing smile. And now, he still found himself defenseless against them, solemn and cold as they were. 

He snatched up the ticket and glanced at the time of the flight. Early the next morning. He didn’t even bother glancing back at the nameless woman as he muttered, “You should go. I’ve got some loose ends to see to.” 

\------------------

“You’ll get to meet the new Quartermaster later,” Tanner explained in his genial manner as he guided Bond through the underground tunnels that were now home to MI6. “He’s a bit busy at the moment; had to jump in for the last Q after . . . well, you know.” 

Bond nodded absently, only half listening. He’d been keeping an eye out for Desmond throughout their tour, hoping to catch glimpses of him as they passed through different areas. He’d yet to see him. Bond knew that he was still here; M would never have sent a civilian, regardless of whether they were a former employee or not, to corral a Double-O. 

“Ah, here we are,” Tanner announced, holding open the door to the firing range where Bond was to be tested for fieldwork. 

\-----------------

Bond stared after the Quartermaster, his Quartermaster, as the young man wove through the crowds of tourists toward the exit. He’d always known that Desmond was bright, meant to be above his lowly IT tech job, but Des had always argued that he was content right where he was. He never wanted the responsibility of a higher position. And then Bond had died, and now he was quartermaster. Maybe he’d been holding himself back because of Bond. Maybe Bond had been holding him back without even realizing it?  
He hadn’t even mentioned anything to Bond when he’d found him in that godforsaken hotel. Not that they’d done much talking at all. But still, it wouldn’t have been too hard to slip it in. 

“As your quartermaster, I’m commanding you to return to duty for queen and country.” 

But there’d been none of that. Instead, he’d left Bond with a choice, like the worn-out agent was actually a man and not just a weapon. But that had always been what had set Des apart. Even though they had met at MI6, where Bond was a giant of legend and prowess and practically nothing besides his designation, Des had only ever treated him like a regular man. And that was why Bond had fallen so hard for him. It was only now that Bond realized that, even with his coldness and solemnity, Des was still treating him like a man, not a weapon, not an agent. And it devastated Bond just as much. 

Bond slowly stood from the bench and made his own way to the exit. His mind replayed through the conversation again and again, but each time it caught on that one moment when Des—no, Q—had smirked and teased him lightly about exploding pens. There, in that moment, had been his Des. But then the younger man had realized his mistake, and the walls had come slamming back into place, his countenance as frigid and severe as ever. 

And Bond realized that he wanted to see that side of Des again. He needed to see it again.

\------------

“Q’s afraid of flying,” Moneypenny explained lightly. 

“Of course he is,” Bond muttered with a grimace as he returned to the sink. 

He knew that Q wasn’t afraid of flying; the quartermaster just hadn’t wanted to come see Bond. But no one, Moneypenny included, knew what they had once been besides M, so Des couldn’t very well tell her that he didn’t want to see Bond, because that would bring up the question of why. So he’d obviously come up with a self-diagnosed case of aviophobia instead. 

That was okay; Bond didn’t need to see him again just yet. It wasn’t like every part of his being ached for Des in the darkness of his hotel rooms at night. It wasn’t like he couldn’t handle some distance.

Except that he absolutely couldn’t stand much more of it. 

\-------------

Bond stared after M as she strode away, her shoulders set stiffly, her head held high despite her diminutive stature. Bond knew that she wasn’t perfect, wasn’t infallible. She was only human, after all. But the way she’d confronted Silva . . . it was just what Bond would have expected of her. Straightforward, blunt, merciless. 

And her explanation made sense; of course it did. But how many times had Bond operated beyond his brief? More than he could keep track of, that’s for certain. And yet it had always turned out for him in the end, if sometimes by the mere split of a hair. But M’s simple indictment, “I gave him up.” Six agents; she got six agents in return for Rodriguez. How many agents would she need to be bribed with to give Bond up, to forget his face and his name, to deny his very existence? 

Bond needed to clear his mind, to sort his thoughts. And usually, he’d have gone to Des for that. But now, he wasn’t allowed. He knew the moment he stepped into Q Branch that Q would tolerate nothing but the utmost professionalism. So instead of sneaking into a private office with Des to voice his doubts, his fears, he stood at Q’s back at the head of Q branch. He ignored the bank of ever-shifting screens and computers, choosing to study the wild mop of dark hair instead. He’d loved that hair, loved to tangle his fingers through it, tug it on particularly loud moans, stroke it on especially quiet nights. His hands twitched behind his back, and he gripped them together even tighter. 

“Now, looking at Silva’s computer, it seems to me he’s done a number of slightly unusual things,” Q explained as he brought up the laptop they’d retrieved from Silva’s base. He spun around to face the screen, his eyes carefully avoiding Bond. “He’s established failsafe protocols to wipe the memory if there’s any attempt to access certain files.” He glanced down at the tablet in his hand. “Only about six people in the world could program safeguards like that.” 

“Of course there are,” Bond allowed. “Can you get past them?” 

“I invented them,” Q informed, not a hint of pride or braggadocio in his tone. He stated it only as a simple fact, as always. Bond couldn’t help his smirk, an errant thought praising his Desmond before he reined himself under control. 

“Right then,” Q announced. “Let’s see what you’ve got for us, Mr. Silva.” 

As Q began to hack, Bond couldn’t help the way his eyes lingered on the boffin’s face. He’d always had that look about him, when he began to work on something he truly loved. And right now, he was absolutely in his element. Despite what he may have said about not wanting to be quartermaster, it was obvious that he’d been made for this, created for the role as clearly as he’d been created for Bond. Bond stopped himself short; Des hadn’t been created for him. They’d had a brief moment together, a speck in the midst of a storm, and now it had passed. 

When the password had been discovered and the map of subterranean London unfurled on the screen, Bond could only marvel at his quartermaster. He’d been better than good, above excellent, in everything that he did. He always had been, and Bond had always known it. And here in this world of wires and screens and codes, Q’s brilliance had only cemented that belief. 

The hiss of a door opening yanked Bond back to the lab, back to MI6, away from that secret place where it was only him and Q.

“What’s going on? Why are the doors open?” Q asked, his voice tinged with confusion. 

Bond only allowed himself a moment of panic before he was racing down toward Silva’s cell. 

\-------------

“It won’t open,” Bond muttered irritably.

“Of course it will. Put your back into it,” Q—Des—urged, his own voice tinged with irritation. It reminded Bond, quite suddenly, that Desmond had lost today too. He’d been hacked, attacked, in his own branch, his home. There’d be time enough for apologies and regrets later; right now, they had to retrieve Silva. 

“Why don’t you come down here and put your back into it?” James shot back, and for a moment, it was just like before when they’d argue about who was cooking dinner or what show to watch or any other trivial bit of life. Those times when they’d playfully shot back and forth just for the sake of it. 

James tried the door again, but it remained fast. “No, it’s stuck,” he admitted over the comms. He glanced over his shoulder then, more out of habit than anything else, and he saw it, the light filtering down the tunnel. “Oh good. There’s a train coming.” 

A long pause, and then the simple, “Hmm, that’s vexing.” Despite the quietness of the words, Bond could hear the underlying distress in them. It was the exact same phrase and tone of voice that Des had used all those months ago when Bond had told him that he’d be flying off to Istanbul to retrieve the list. 

Bond couldn’t address Q’s concern, not now, not with his voice filtering throughout Q branch over the comms. So instead he yanked out his gun and aimed it at the rusted handle on the door, shooting off three rounds and smashing through just as the train whipped past where he’d stood. 

“I’m through,” he announced heavily. 

“Told you,” Q chided, but there was relief there as well. “We’ve alerted security, and the police are on their way.” 

\----------------

Bond shoved through the crowd, searching frantically for that familiar face. He knew that Q was running facial recognition software back at headquarters, but neither of them had found Silva yet. 

“Train’s leaving,” Bond said, even though he knew Q could see it just as well. “Do I get on the train?” 

“Don’t get on the train; I’m not sure he’s on it,” Q murmured. “Give us a minute.” 

It was the same thing he used to say when Bond would be lounging on the couch, ready to watch a movie, but Des would be still working on some software or invention he was currently tinkering on. 

“Do I get on the train?” Bond asked again, his tone low and urgent. Another moment of silence passed until Q answered. 

“Bond . . .”

“What?”

“Get on the train!” 

Bond began running. 

\-------------

Tanner had no sooner slammed the door after shoving M into the backseat of the car, and Bond was screeching away from the curb. 

“007, what the hell are we doing?” she demanded irritably. “Are you kidnapping me?”

“That would be one way of looking at it,” he acknowledged tersely as he swerved to avoid a turning vehicle. 

“Too many people are dying because of me,” she murmured, her gaze distant and withdrawn as she stared out the window. 

Bond didn’t deign to acknowledge that remark. She was the head of MI6, responsible for more deaths than Bond could fathom. But he knew that this was different; it certainly felt different. So instead of offering comfort or false reassurances, Bond said, “If he wants you, he’s going to have to come and get you. We’ve been one step behind Silva from the start. It’s time to get out in front of the game.” 

“And I’m to be the bait?” she guessed. Bond didn’t bother answering, just held her gaze in the rearview mirror, waiting for her decision. “All right,” she finally conceded, “just us. No one else.”

The job would be delicate, complex; they needed for the trail of crumbs to be simple enough for Silva to follow but complex enough for him to follow readily; it wouldn’t do for him to be wary of a trap. There was only one person that Bond trusted with a job like that. He brought his hand up to his earpiece. 

“Q, I need help.” 

\----------------

M had pretended not to listen as he’d conversed with Q, but he knew that she’d heard. He’d almost asked her about it then, asked if she’d sent Des as his new quartermaster or his old lover, but he’d found that he couldn’t. 

Despite his lack of questions, she seemed to know what he needed to hear. 

“He’s brilliant, you know,” she murmured as they stood staring out over the Scottish hills. 

“I know,” he replied softly. He didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. 

“I knew it back when you first started seeing him. I almost tried to keep you from him,” she admitted. “I didn’t want you ruining my best prospect before I’d even had a shot at him. . .” she faltered for a moment, but continued on. “But you didn’t ruin him; you made him better, just as he made you better.”

Bond’s smile was tight and bitter. “I know. He’s still making me better.” He thought of the gun Q had built for him, the guidance he’d given him in the station, the trap he was helping him set even now. 

“And you’re still making him better,” M confided. “You’re already showing him how to be a true quartermaster, and even since you’ve come back, he’s. . .” she trailed off. “Maybe that’s best left for later.” 

Bond almost begged her to finish her thought. Since he’d come back, Desmond was what? How had he been before? But she was right. It was best left for later, after they’d survived the night. 

\--------------

Bond stood up on the roof of MI6, staring out over the city landscape. He’d yet to see Desmond since he’d arrived back from Scotland, but from what Eve had told him, their quartermaster was still busy at work down in his labs. Apparently, transitioning in a new head of MI6 took a lot of work with their firewalls and security systems. The death of the former head was just too tempting to pass up for cyberterrorists who’d been bombarding MI6 in their moment of supposed weakness. Q and his techs had been showing them otherwise. 

“He’ll give them all a run for their money,” Eve advised conspiratorially as she led him down toward Mallory’s office. 

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” Bond murmured.

She opened the door to the outer office, and as she hung up her coat on the rack, Bond smirked. “You know, we’ve never been formally introduced.” 

She turned to him with a playful smile. “Oh! Well, my name’s Eve, Eve Moneypenny.” 

“Well, I look forward to our time together, Miss Moneypenny.”

“Me too,” she replied, and her answer seemed genuine, honest. “I’m sure we’ll have one or two close shaves.” 

Right then, the door to Mallory’s office swung open, and Tanner stepped out. 

“Morning, 007.”

“Morning, Tanner.” 

“He’ll see you now,” he nodded his head back toward the office he’d just left. 

Bond offered Eve another nod, smiled wanly at Tanner, then stepped into Mallory’s office and shut the door behind him. 

“How’s the arm, Sir?” he asked, gesturing towards Mallory’s arm in its cast. 

“What?” Mallory muttered absently as he glanced up from the sheaf of papers he held. “Oh, it’s fine. It’ll get better.” He slowly stood and held out the papers towards Bond. “Your retirement forms.” 

“Retirement?” Bond murmured, looking down at the papers but making no move to take them.

“Yes, I understand that was the agreement between you and Q when he went to obtain you from your early death. One last mission?”

Bond stared down at the papers blankly. “I do recall him mentioning something about that. I didn’t realize you all were serious.”

“We were,” Mallory assured him. “I don’t think M was quite keen on it, but it was, apparently, Q’s only requirement when he accepted the job of quartermaster.”   
“He was the one who bargained for me?” Bond murmured incredulously. 

Mallory nodded. “Something about letting you live a regular life without constantly hiding under MI6’s radar.” 

So it was all for him. That’s why Des had finally taken the quartermaster job after years of refusing. He’d been trying to earn Bond’s freedom for him.   
“Do I have to take it? The retirement?” Bond asked, his eyes still glued to the papers. 

Mallory frowned, his brow furrowing. “No, of course not. Lots to be done right now, and I will take all the help I can get.”

“Then I will politely decline your offer,” Bond murmured, looking back up to Mallory with a vague smile. 

“Of course,” Mallory said, setting the papers back down on his desk. “Although, I don’t believe Q will be too thrilled about it. He was quite adamant that you must be given a proper retirement from the agency.” 

“Yes, because he thought that’s what I wanted,” Bond murmured softly. 

“I see,” Mallory said, his tone obviously confused. So M hadn’t told him about 007 and the quartermaster. 

Bond offered a final smile and turned to walk away, but Mallory’s question halted him. 

“And what do you want, 007, if not that?” 

Bond hesitated for a long moment, contemplating his next words and their consequences carefully before answering. 

“I want to win my husband back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Would you believe it, this is the first fic I've written in close to five months! Also, this is my first 00q fic, so please be kind with feedback! 
> 
> Regarding Q's name, I have seen several different names for Q throughout the many wonderful 00q fics I’ve had the pleasure of reading, and by far my favorite was Desmond, which the very talented sorion used in her lovely fic “Does Your Mother Know?” (It’s one of my very favorites; you should go read it.) So, I hope she doesn’t mind my borrowing it here.
> 
> And yes, I am well aware that the title probably sent a few of you into Hamilton-frenzied sing-alongs; my deepest apologies.


End file.
